


Tell Him

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Idiot Boyfriends (head over heels and in denial) [14]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, torture aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:06:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27460924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: Hercules finds out the unfortunate truth.With unfortunate consequences.
Relationships: John Laurens & Margaret "Peggy" Schuyler, John Laurens/Hercules Mulligan
Series: Idiot Boyfriends (head over heels and in denial) [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1275245
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Tell Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QuakeLePan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuakeLePan/gifts).



“You’re not going to tell him?” Peggy asks, smoothing a flat palm down John’s back.

“N-no,” John shakes his head, deep laborious breaths leaving at the thought. “I can’t. I can’t. He’ll think I’m crazy.” He taps out a crooked beat onto his knees, doing anything he could to prevent himself from hyperventilating, and breaking down in front of his friend and confidante.

“Relax, okay? I’m not going to make you. But surely he deserves to know how you’re doing..?”

“How I’m doing? The being scared of the dark? Of the light? Of being naked? Of being alone? Of smoke? Of fire? Of heat? Of cold? I’m too scared to take a shower, Peg. I can’t tell him all that. I can’t tell him that I lied about South Carolina.”

“My sister swears Herc is amazing. He’ll understand why you did it.”

“I ch-cheated on him. And then, it was just one lie after the other. I… He won't forgive me for that.”

“Y-you did what?” Peggy bites her lip, hand pausing in its action. “You're going to have to be more specific. Y-you…”

“I let a subordinate fuck me.”

Peggy doesn't feel the same guilt that weighs John down. She feels disgusted. She knows what John is saying, even if John doesn't. “What do you mean _let_?” 

“What?” 

“You said you let them fuck you. You didn't say ‘I fucked them’ or ‘they fucked me’.” _The phrase lacks ownership_ , Eliza would probably say, _the speaker doesn't want to be associated with the act._ Peggy makes a guess, “Did you maybe not want to do it..?” 

John bursts into tears, and Peggy knows she's right. 

* * *

Hercules eases himself into bed, grunting as he lays flat and sinks into the mattress. Every part of him aches, a testament to his overwork. The warm shower had helped some, but now he was more interested in being unconscious than worrying about next week's assignment. 

His phone rings beside him and he groans in displeasure. He glances up, yanks it off the charger, and slides the green symbol across the screen. 

“Pretty Boy, I swear, you better be calling because you're dead, or because you wanna suck my dick.”

“Sorry.” There's a startled noise, followed by softest, “It's Liza's little sister.”

“Oh, shit. Peggy? Please forget anything I just said.” Hercules mutters, shame overtaking any previous inkling of exhaustion. He sits up. “Any reason you're calling from John's phone?” 

“Yeah. Look, uh... Listen, there's something he wants you to know. But he isn't sure how to tell you.”

“W-what is it?” Hercules laughs awkwardly, trying to clear the tension. Whatever John wants to say, can't be good. If the ex-soldier could detail his father's abuse while staring Herc in the face… The fact that he can't face this does not bode well. “He's not dead, is he?” 

“No, he's not dead, thank god. He wanted to tell you about where he really was during the South Carolina fiasco.” Peggy starts, “Have you noticed anything different about him?” 

“Bits and pieces. He's certainly… Averse to a few more things than before. Won't let me touch him. Sometimes I have to force him to _talk._ Like, I don't make him do anything he doesn't want to, but it certainly feels like the silent treatment.” Hercules mutters. He sighs, surrendering his true feelings. “Peggy, I love him. But I can't keep… Keep doing this.”

Peggy's eyes widen, “Hercules!” 

“I'm tired, that's all I'm saying.” Hercules holds his hands up, even if Peggy can't see him. “I love him. I do. But I can't love him through whatever the fuck this is.”

“He was assaulted.”

“I figured that,” Hercules had guessed as much from the broken wrists. 

“ _Sexually assaulted_ by a fellow soldier.” 

“I understand that he's suffering. And I wish I could help him. But I’m out of my depth. I’m out of my depth, and he won't help himself. He refuses to go to therapy, refuses to talk to me, refuses to even shower, refuses to go to physio… I can't help him. I'm not a professional, Peggy.” 

“I know. But you have to understand that it was hard for him to say anything. He thought he'd cheated.”

“Okay,” Hercules clenches his teeth. Out of anger. Out of regret. “But I don't understand how that makes it okay to go awol for 2 months. I know there's more you aren't telling me.”

“He won't tell me anything else about it except that _not-South-Carolina_ was hell, and that's where he got the injuries.” Peggy frowns, “I prompted him for more -- what injuries? -- but he clammed up. He said that I don't have the security clearance.”

Hercules has heard that before; it's getting old. “Is he nearby? I want to talk to him.”

There's a length of silence as Peggy turns to John. He's in no state to answer. His blank stare drills a hole in the wall behind the television. His cheeks are still damp, shallow breaths that leave his swollen lips, the only indication that Laurens is alive. 

“He's…” catatonic? “busy.”

“Busy fucking avoiding me.” Hercules spits, “Tell him that I need a break.”

“Hercules, please, he needs you.”

“I need a boyfriend who has the balls to actually _talk to me himself.”_ Herc huffs, “So, let him know how I feel. Y'know, if he isn't too busy to pencil it in.”

* * *

“What are you doing here?” 

Laurens freezes, turning to face Hercules. The tailor’s body inhabits the whole doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest. His expression is stiff, and cold, devoid of even the tiniest hint of vulnerability. John’s eyebrows rise as his mouth opens to muteness. He gestures to his clothes strewn across the bed, and the duffel bag by the door. He signs **_home_ ** and then **_I'm leaving_ ** _._

That doesn’t wash. Hercules grabs at Laurens, face contorted in pure rage. “You’re gonna fucking talk to me, John.”

John’s body tenses in the hold, drawing away from Hercules. The violent shake that follows prompts his confession. He can't even handle a little roughing up. Hercules means no harm. John can't know that. His judgement has failed him before. Silence had kept him safe, and now it would be his downfall. “I… Uh, I was j-just coming to get my stuff.”

“That's it?” Hercules swallows. He releases Laurens, shoving the ex-soldier back onto the bed. “We date for almost three years, and you're just g-gonna…. You know what? Fuck it.” He turns to leave, wavering only when he hears John’s plea.

“Herc, wait, please.”

“What? What do you want?” 

His voice is thin and gravelly, pulled too taut across his tongue. “I don’t… want to… break up.” 

“I don’t wait to either, but I can’t be with someone I don’t trust to tell me the truth. You have to understand that. I never know if you’re safe, and it fucking kills me. You won't even talk to me.”

“I…” there's a pause as John claws at his throat, long red lines carving into the column of his neck. His fingers curl into his skin, struggling to tear the words from his spasming vocal cords, ” _can't.”_

Hercules’s eyes narrow in confusion as he watches Laurens. His sympathy quickly evaporates. “You don’t want to. Pack your shit and get out.” 

John tugs at his sleeves. Bites his lip. Taps his foot. Then grabs at Herc's collar, all but dragging him across the floor, and shoving him against the wall. The corners of his lips twitch, searching for the ability to articulate the words dancing in his head. 

Herc searches John's gaze, watches his eyes water as his inability to vocalize his thoughts frustrates him. Hercules takes John's trembling fists in hand, guiding them down until they're clasped between them. 

“I got you, Babygirl.” Hercules whispers. 

John nods, pressing his lips to Herc's, salty tears and sorrow the only taste they share. 

When Hercules wakes up, he isn't happy. Laurens is missing from his bed. It's not as though he had expected any different. Laurens is hardly dependable these days, preferring to give Hercules the silent treatment, leave without saying goodbye, and go AWOL. It was a bad idea to fuck each other last night, even after so long apart. But neither of them can blame alcohol or each other. 

Hercules has always been so full of love, has always treated Laurens with tenderness, especially during sex. When they were both naked, John's body was the most beautiful and sacred sacrament, revered and respected. Hercules would never be more willing to sink to his knees and genuflect at the altar of John's cock. 

But last night, the altar was desecrated and desacralized, clothes torn from his body, itself gripped and grappled and beaten and bitten. Hair yanked and hips bruised by unbridled thrusts and the silent rage that permeated the room. John swearing and begging and saying more words to Hercules in that bed than the previous 3 months. Hercules grit his teeth and ordained John a whore and bitch, a stupid disgusting thing that wasn't worthy of anything more than the pain he received. John came with a silent shout, nails drawing blood from crescent-shaped lines on Herc's back. 

Hercules sobbed through his orgasm, rage giving way to an ugly feeling of guilt that pumped through his veins with every pulse of his heart. 

They don't cuddle then, like before, making homes of each other. Hercules had rolled away, striding towards the shower before John even hit the mattress. 

It's so out of character that it makes Herc sick. The cold space beside him is what he expects. John is the most magnificent man, and Hercules had tarnished him. 

Hercules swings his legs out of bed. If he stays put, he'll think, and if he thinks, he'll go mad. He spends the morning retching into the sink, struggling to purge his body of whatever made him so violent with the man he claims to love. 

He brushes his teeth and spits into the sink, ignoring the streaks of blood as he rinses the foamy residue. 

He never smokes with John in the house. He used to until Laurens began to complain about failing drug tests and being too horny to function. It had never been a problem when John was on leave -- the men fucked on every flat surface in the apartment -- but working on a contact high was miserable. 

Herc rummages through the stack of books looking for his stash, for the hollowed-out blue novel with the broken spine. His fingers find it after some time, no doubt hidden as a result of Laurens's interferences. At least, that's the most probable scenario. That, or some random drug dealer broke into the apartment and left their baggie of pills here. Hercules thinks it's far more likely that John's hiding the drugs from him. 

“Son of a bitch.”

* * *

Hercules doesn't expect Laurens to be here. Not after last night. But the ex-soldier is here, in the living room. Herc finds Laurens in fetal position, smeared in blood, in the corner of the room. The laptop, still on, sits undisturbed on the table, John's bathrobe is thrown over the back of the seat, pens and papers are strewn about the table. There hasn’t been a break-in. Hercules is paralyzed for a moment, running through potential courses of action before settling firmly on confrontation. 

Comfort hasn't worked thus far.

“Are you fucking high?” 

John glances up slowly, raising his head until it smacks into the wall behind him. His cheeks are damp, eyes red and bloodshot, and at this distance, Hercules can see the bruising on the back of the ex-soldier's knuckles. If Hercules didn’t know any better, he would assume his boyfriend just came back from a skirmish with the British.

“No, no, no.” John slurs a routine denial. The fact that speech comes to him so easily is an indication of the falsehood. 

“Yes, you are.” Hercules pushes, grabbing at John's shoulder. “Look at me. What did you take?” 

“Nothing… No-Not high.”

“Then why'd I find pills hidden behind the bookshelf?” Hercules grips John's scalp, yanking John to standing position. John winces, face contorting as the pain penetrates the haze of the heroin high. 

“‘m sorry. Lemme go.” John's hands float forward grabbing at Herc's waistband. He purses his lips, leaning in to nip at Herc's ear. It would be seductive if John wasn't so high out of his mind. “I'll give you what you want.”

“What I want is for you to be clean and sober and healthy.” Hercules exhales, redirecting his attention to controlling John's greedy hands instead. His words are tinged with the reality of his impatience. “Not controlled by this fucking junk.” 

John lets his head fall back against the wall with a gurgle. 

“Look at me, you fucking asshole.” and Herc shakes his boyfriend. Shakes him hard enough for pinprick pupils to widen in fear. “I’ve been patient, but I won't coddle you. You get clean, or I'm gone for good.”

“It's too much.”

“No, it's not. You'll go to rehab, you'll go to NA and you'll get clean, you hear me?” 

“No, I've had too much,” he giggles, “I needa go to hospital. Need Narcan.” John’s head lolls forward, hair shielding his face. 

“Stand up. Stand up! Support your weight.” Hercules commands, carding his fingers through John’s hair. John looks through him, eyes unfocused. “Shit, alright, we're going.”

  
  


* * *

“Laurens?” Hercules raises a fist. He motions forward to bang on the bathroom door, but stops himself when he realizes that he might startle his boyfriend. Loud noises have done that before, and after everything John has been through, he doesn't deserve any more trauma. “You've been in there a while..?” 

He can hear the shower curtain drag across the bar sharply, a distant thudding, a nearer sobbing. 

“John, baby, are you okay? I'm worried about you.” but when isn't he worried these days? The image of John, so thin and frail, hasn't left his mind for a second. Since then, he hasn't managed to do anything right. But to be fair to himself, John isn't the same person he was three months ago. Those two months spent ‘in South Carolina to see my family’ that Laurens refuses to talk about have broken him down into angry shards of glass that grate against every soft surface of Herc's psyche. That draw blood more often than they don't. A hand in John's hair earns Hercules a punch in the face; a flirty whisper, a punch to the throat. “C'mon, John. Let me in, please.”

The sobbing pauses, replaced by John's panicked voice. “Y-you need to go, Herc.”

“Why?” Hercules asks, and he can hear John rifling through drawers in the bathroom, soft thuds as the contents of the dirty clothes hamper is rained onto the linoleum floor. 

“I'm only going to hurt you. You d-deserve better.”

“Pretty Boy, you're the best boyfriend I could ever ask for.”

“I hit you and I scream at you and I throw things, and I know you never sleep, because I never do. I'm not pretty. And I'm not the guy you fell in love with. I cheated on you, Herc.” 

Hercules feels the lurch in his chest as he bangs on the doorframe, “Can we not talk about this through the door, please?” 

“I don't th-think that's a good idea…” John says, and Hercules can hear the gushing of water from the faucet. “Leave me alone!” 

Hercules sighs. “John…” 

“C-call an a-ambulance, Hercules.”

 _Jesus_. “Why?” Hercules pushes, “What have you done? Did you take too much again?”

“I-it won't stop bleeding.”

“Let me see. Please, John. Unlock this door. The paramedics won't be able to get in if you fall unconscious.”

Hercules can hear shuffling again, then silence before the deadbolt slides out of place. 

John waves. 

“Hey Babygirl, what's the matter?” Hercules can't see anything wrong with the ex-soldier, except… “Your hair's wet.”

John signs **_water,_** then something Hercules doesn't quite grasp, followed by **_terror_**. He clenches his jaw, fingers tracing patterns on his arm and retiring behind his back. He's back to not talking, signing the words **_afraid_** and then **_freak_**. 

“You hurt yourself?” Hercules follows the path, eyes settling on the deep gash in John's arm, that by the looks of the bathtub and the streaks of copper pooling in the ridges of his palm, was previously gushing blood. He schools his expression, succeeding in masking his overwhelming feeling of alarm. “Need me to sew you up?” 

John stumbles backwards as he nods, coming to a stop as he crashes to the floor beside the bathtub with a groan. He places a clawed hand above his right eyebrow, makes a circle to sign **_dizzy_ **, then loses consciousness. 

“The morphine. When did it start?” Hercules asks, glancing sideways expectantly when no sound comes from Laurens. Laurens looks like a junkie, braced uncomfortably against the wall of his pretentious kitchen. He isn't particularly forthcoming this morning, with information or otherwise. He’s shivering, again. He hasn’t stopped, not once, not for a single moment since Hercules crawled into bed with him eight weeks ago. Hercules has barely seen the man eat a morsel. Today, he expects no different. “You’re not hungry?”

John shakes his head and slinks into a stool, never making a sound.

Hercules drops the potato, peeler beside it. “So, you’ve decided to kill yourself slowly now?” Hercules growls, unable to hide the venom in his voice.

 **_That isn't fair_ **, John signs. 

“No! What isn't fair, is you not talking to me, or your therapist, or your physio about anything going on inside your head, and then me finding you unconscious on the bathroom floor. What's not fair, is me having to take you to hospital and watch while they pumped your stomach of the fucking morphine and bandaged the gashes you'd made in your wrists.”

John tugs at sleeves in an effort to hide the freshly dressed wounds. “I'm sorry.”

“You're not sorry.”

“I am!” 

“You're high right now! You want me to kill you? You want to die?” Hercules yells, brandishing a knife and aiming at John. The ex-soldier flinches, but Hercules is unperturbed. “Because you’re not just hurting yourself, you selfish dickhead. I have to fucking watch you shoot that junk into your fucking veins.”

“You can turn your head. You can leave.” John says simply, throwing his head forward onto the breakfast bar, letting the coolness penetrate his skull. 

“If Gilbert _died_ for you, then you don't deserve it.” Hercules growls, “Not when you keep fucking about like this. Heroin, really?” 

“It’s morphine.” John crumbles. “Fuck off.” 

“Do you love me, John? Do you still love me, or do you love the morphine more?”

“Course I love you. I just can’t keep… thinking.”

“When’s the last time you went to therapy?”

“I can’t keep going. My… situation was preventable. I shouldn’t have been there. I don’t deserve--” John sucks his lip between his teeth, biting down. “He saved me. I kept my mouth shut to save myself, and h-he… They were more violent with him because he provoked them. He said he loved me and that's the reason why I was spared and he was…” John closes his eyes, trying to force the memory of Laf, broken, bleeding, and sobbing out of his head. “They cut his Achilles tendon out of his leg so he couldn’t run. Th-they raped him, right in front of me. They beat him, crushed his fingers for fun; broke every bone in his face; pulled his hair out by the handful;” His fists clench, and he stands to stride over the fridge. He can’t get through this without a drink, “They strapped me down, fucking waterboarded me; put cigarettes out on me; cut me, p-p-pissed on me;” John stops to retch violently into the sink. 

“Okay. Okay.” Hercules soothes, “I know it’s hard, bu--”

“No! You don’t know! You don’t know shit about any of it. And you mill around, and treat me like I’m some kind of fragile little china doll. And pretend that you know what’s best for me when you don’t! You don’t know because you don’t fucking listen!”

“I’m sorry,” Hercules steps back, clearing his throat. “I'm listening now, okay? W-what do you want?”

“I want you to just leave me alone. Please. I’m so fucking tired of pretending to be okay so I don’t worry you. Performing recovery so you don’t worry about me. Everything hurts all the damn time and I can never sleep, and nothing’s gotten better, okay? Nothing’s okay. I see Lafayette every time I close my eyes, and I wish, I _fucking wish_ that I was strong enough to end it all before you found me. I’m in that room every day and I can still smell the smoke, and I can’t stand it.” John sighs, “So, I know I’m difficult, I know you’ve been trying, but please, just… go.”

“No way, I won't give up on yo--” 

“I don't care about your platitudes, Hercules. I want you to go.”

“John,”

“Please, I'm tired. Please, Hercules. Leave me be.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes!” there are tears streaming from John's face, though it's hard to know if it's from anger or exhaustion. 

“You can't take this back.”

“I don't want to. I don't want to have to worry about how I'm holding you back every second of every day. I can't even get out of bed sometimes. So what if I get high? It’s the only thing worth living for anymore.”

“Okay,” Hercules swallows, hard. He won’t argue with an addict. He grabs his rucksack and strides across the room to the door “If that's what you want. Don't you _dare_ call me unless you're dying.” before he slams it shut behind him. 

Hercules only makes it about three strides before the sob rips its way from his chest, and he wipes his eyes, and steels himself before he walks out onto the street.

  
  
  



End file.
